


Graviora Manent

by GhostoftheMotif, qualapec



Series: Shallow Graves [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Betrayal, Execution, Gen, Multi, Post-World War II, Resurrection, digging out of a grave, waking up in a grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostoftheMotif/pseuds/GhostoftheMotif, https://archiveofourown.org/users/qualapec/pseuds/qualapec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He threw his head back and screamed for anyone who cared to listen. It was half battle cry and half howl, because he was back. Prussia lived. --- A followup to the events of ( "Gallows Smile" ).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Their eyes met, the younger brother watching the elder jerk against the pressure. His hands were not tied, but he didn’t raise them. They remained clenched and controlled at his side.  
  
Then the hands went slack, and Prussia hung._ – From Gallows Smile  
  
Prussia opened his eyes and saw nothing. He sucked in a breath and arched his stiff back, fluttering his eyes against the darkness. Cold, dry, staled air rushed in to his sore chest and he coughed.  
  
He knew something was wrong. Shaking, clumsy hands reached out to the empty black and pressed into something hard and flat, cloth covered and surrounding. Dread sank into the confusion, and he realized he was trapped.  
  
There was enough room for him to lift up his arm and press it to the roof of his prison. Experimentally, he pushed against it and ran his hands over smooth cloth, searching for some sort of latch or opening. He pounded against it, the wooden drum thundering into nothing and smothered almost the second his fist made contact. It didn’t budge.  
  
He swallowed past the searing pain in his throat. Fisted his hand again, and pounded against the covering. “Hello!” He called out in German, and immediately regretted it as his throat grated like gravel and he coughed again. All he heard in response was the deafening sound of his own voice meeting nothing but resistance.  
  
Prussia blinked, tried to ignore the panic threatening him as his heart rate increased. Frantically, he looked from side to side. In every direction, 360 degrees, he found no vision, no answer. He felt like some kid again, like he was lost and scared in some great black forest. Mommy had been there just a second ago but just as he’d begun to realize how dark and scary the world really was, he’d turned around and there was no help in sight. Wherever he was, he knew that he needed to get out, and that there was no escape.  
  
He was trapped somewhere dark, somewhere cold.  
  
Somewhere dark where sound was muffled.  
  
Everything was foggy- details like his name, the date, and how he had gotten there were insignificant compared to the burning need to escape. Escape any way, any form, however he could and at any cost.  
  
Prussia tilted his head quizzically, the notion of escape conjuring memories from the void.  
  
 _“You know I’m not one for speeches, so I’ll keep it short.”  
  
“I don’t blame you.”  
  
“As for everyone else in the room…well…fuck you, I don’t care.”_  
  
Then came the end.  
  
A different kind of numbness spread through him as he figured it out.  
  
So…he was in a box - presumed dead but alive all the same - and he felt a little like that fucking cat.  
  
No time to waste, then. He took in a deep, calming breath of grave air; the supply was limited. Bending his body to get a better position, he stretched his arms and pressed them against the headboard. In tandem, he twisted his hips against the lid of the coffin to give his legs more room to bend. Testing the sturdiness of the wood against his boots, he pressed and released, pressed and released. He tried to keep his breathing and heart rate steady- he didn’t think he could bear to suffocate again.  
  
He was willing to try anything.  
  
Bracing his arms against the headboard, he lashed out with his feet. Boots collided with solid wood reinforced by soil. With any luck, he hadn’t been buried long enough for the soil to stiffen. If the dirt was still loose, there was a chance he could pull himself out. But he needed to act now, needed to do it now, or he’d either die permanently or be trapped there until Judgment Day.  
  
Instinct told him what to do where his brain failed him.  
  
Because no.  
  
Just no.  
  
He was not going to die here after surviving his own execution.  
  
That was not an option.  
  
More feverishly, his feet smashed into the wood, and it still wouldn’t give.  
  
He thought of their faces, the faces of the hypocritical fucks that murdered him, and there was a new fire to his muscles- anger. Betrayal. They’d watched him die, twitching and jerking…and it hadn’t fazed them. France –-- one of his dearest friends, a lover once –-- watched him put down and hadn’t cared. The Allies had gone home to their beds that night, comfortable and safe, while Prussia had been laid to rest, assumedly in peace.  
  
Beneath his boot, the wood made a crackling noise. Despite his attempts to keep his breath steady, he found it increasing. Something hot was gathering in his eyes, dripping down his nose and dropping onto the bed of the coffin. He was crying- crying because he’d lost everything. His identity, his achievements, his friendships, his family and, lastly, his life had all been stripped from him, and for what?  
  
Family. He had family, though.  
  
 _Germany._  
  
Prussia roared. One end of his coffin splintered and cracked. A mound of dirt rushed in around his calves. Everything else groaned under the pressure of the dirt above; he’d have to move quickly now…  
  
His feet had lost mobility, but it was a small price to pay for weakening the structure. Now, he could use the strength of the earth trying to crush him to smash the lid open against. He fought with everything he had as he rammed a shoulder against the wood overhead. Twisting, he aimed for the edges- a hinge, a latch, any point of weakness would do. With any luck the strain of losing so much support, so quickly, would cause the lid to crack, giving him the opening he needed to occupy and escape through.  
  
If it didn’t work, he realized with a dry swallow, then the force of the earth could push the lid flat onto his chest…and he wouldn’t be able to breathe.  
  
If this was going to work, he needed to commit. He didn’t know how many times he lifted and banged his shoulder, his elbow against the wood, all he knew was that the burning need surged through the pain.  
  
By the time it happened, he was so far into the thrill of fighting back that he barely registered it. All he knew was that there was a snapping noise, followed by a deafening clash. He couldn’t really tell what had broken; he just started clawing, tearing fabric and trying to find purchase on the casket directly over his chest.  
  
A mad cackle tore from his mouth when the first taste of dirt fell through to his face. He snapped and tore at more, more chunks of wood went and damp earth tried to overwhelm him, but he was too close. Energy swam through his body as he began to press his head into the soil, clearing wiggle-room for his body as he went. Up. He had to go up. He had no idea how long it would take, but he couldn’t stop.  
  
He grasped at the dirt. His first instincts told him that he should put energy into as widespread of an area as possible- like swimming. But secondary instincts told him to save his energy by keeping the force concentrated. He had to focus everything on upwards motion. It felt like swimming but it wasn’t. He kept thinking that he should have been moving faster. He fought that- blocked expectations of reality led to panic, and the key at this juncture was to keep himself calm.  
  
There was no room for fear. His head, his shoulders, his arms all blunted and clawed him through the soil. They burned. His chest ached. The fact that he knew he wouldn’t be able to breathe if he tried to was almost enough to make him panic. Because that sounded like suffocating…which was like what it had felt to be hanged…  
  
He gritted his teeth and shoved onwards.  
  
It was the second longest three minutes of his life. The last one had ended in darkness; this began in darkness.  
  
Only now he saw a way out. He wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers.  
  
The closer he got to the surface, the wetter it felt.  
  
In his throat, he screamed, thrust out with his hand…  
  
…and felt a moment of sucking liquid before it punched into clean air. As he broke the surface, his small tunnel collapsed and the earth tried to drag him back down, but he punched his other hand through. He clasped at anything and everything, trying to gain traction on the slick mud.  
  
Prussia breathed a little too quickly, a little too close to the top, and inhaled muddy dirt. Immediately following that was a hack and cough, a gag as he gave one last push.  
  
By the time he’d cleared his throat enough to cough, he could taste fresh air.  
  
Soft droplets of rainwater came down on his face. He sat there for a moment, up to his shoulders in mud and only half-free from his grave.  
  
Damned if the rainwater on his face didn’t feel good. It was so gentle, and he was tired.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He was alive.  
  
Hot water stung his cheeks, slipping down with the icy bite of rain.  
  
He didn’t know how long it took him to bring the rest of his body out of the ground. When he did, he sat on his knees and stared into the night. His vision was still fuzzy, but the dull red glow from the storm clouds provided more than enough light.  
  
Prussia stared at his hands and blinked until his vision returned; they were completely torn to shreds. Stones minced the skin on both. On his left hand, he’d ripped off a fingernail on a root, another was half gone from something else. Dirt was caked into every wound, scraped against the quick of his fingers like sandpaper as it packed against his nails.  
  
Heavy, breathy pants slowly turned to laughter.  
  
He was alive.  
  
For the first time in his life, he hadn’t expected to be. He’d expected to die. Curtains. Caput. Exit stage left, Herr Beillschmidt, and try not to trip over all those corpses you made on your way out.  
  
With shaking hands, he felt his neck.  
  
They had, at very least, allowed him the dignity of not being buried with his noose.  
  
In its place, it had left a kiss for good luck- a ring of mottled flesh, half decayed by the time he’d started to resurrect. The spot where it had caught under his jaw was still raw, but it would form an ugly, thin scar in no time.  
  
He threw his head back and _screamed_ for anyone who cared to listen. It was half battle cry and half howl, because he was back. Prussia lived.  
  
What didn’t kill him would make him stronger, and he would not rest until he’d made each one of them pay for what they’d done to him and his brother.  
  
He would have plenty of time for sleep when he was dead.  
  
~~~   
  
He didn’t even need to speak to get the two soldiers guarding the door to step aside. All it took was a look at his face, and they _knew_ , stumbling away with wide eyes and pale faces. Their hands clutched at their guns, draped in plastic against the rain. Even beneath the heavy weight of their uniforms, Prussia could see them quail, frightened children in the presence of something _old_ and, until recently, _dead_. He grinned wide at them, hands deep in the pockets of his own uniform, the now tattered thing he’d been buried in caked with mud and soaked through to the bone.  
  
“Don’t mind me, boys,” he sneered, arching one shoulder and cracking his tortured neck as he stepped forward to push open the door and cross the threshold. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know they’d run, probably to get a superior. It didn’t matter. Very little did.  
  
It had taken him hours to reach the building he knew the Allies would be holed up in if they were still on his brother’s land. Hours of staggering down streets until he regained full use of his legs, hours of breaking into wild laughter that sent the people around him reeling away in instinctive alarm and fear, hours of slouching through the rain like it could somehow weigh him back down into the earth. If the terrified man whose arm he’d grab could be trusted, it was nearly three weeks since he’d died. Prussia had never heard of a nation being under for that long and coming out the other side.  
  
He was just going to have to show the Allies what a goddamn _miracle_ he was.  
  
There was only one man in the hall when Prussia walked in. He was holding a tray with glasses and a plate of food, and it shook in his hands with a sound of glass on metal as he met Prussia’s eyes. Prussia strode up to him without a change in pace, took the tray from his now loose grip, set it aside on a nearby stand, and lifted a hand to the man’s throat. His strength was _nothing_ compared to what it used to be, but it was still enough for one mortal. He squeezed, and when the man started to fade, Prussia let go and allowed him to silently sink to the floor in unconsciousness. Then he continued down the hall, grabbing one of the glasses at random as he passed. He downed the contents ---tea--- in three gulps. The sensation of something other than rainwater slipping down his throat was at once painful and soothing.  
  
It was soothing not only because it eased the rasp, but because he’d seen the other glasses on that tray. There’d been four glasses, and he knew who those drinks were supposed to be for. A triumphant smile lit on his face, glinting furiously in his eyes.  
  
No one called out to him from the rooms he passed. There were men in each of them, but they were speaking in loud voices, joking, shouting, trusting completely that if something was wrong, someone would have sounded an alarm. It must have been nice to be so alive, to be so _secure_.  
  
There was an open door at the end of the hall, and the room beyond it held none of the sounds of high spirits as the others. Prussia approached it without hesitation.  
  
A gold glow was visible from the inside but didn’t quite reach the hall beyond, merely making the darkness more pronounced. The room was long, open, and almost the width of the entire building. Windows lined three walls, occasionally adding to the weak light with bursts of lightening from the outside storm. Four nations sat around a table at the far side, huddled over a sea of papers beneath the single lamp.  
  
They didn’t look up when Prussia entered the room. France’s back was to him, England at the end on his left, Russia at the end on his right, and America across from him. They were talking in low voices, unconcerned with their surroundings. Steady, strong. Self-assured.  
  
Rather than approach them immediately, Prussia veered to the side to look out of the window at the streets beyond. Somewhere out there was a cemetery missing a tenant. Somewhere in this room were the men that owed it recompense. Somewhere nearby was a brother that he desperately wanted to find but couldn’t until certain issues were resolved. He lifted his fingers to play across the line around his throat.  
  
“Thank you. Place the tray on the table, please, _cher_ ,” France called courteously, still without so much as a glance over his shoulder.  
  
Prussia slowly turned his face from the window, leaning against the frame. The words left his mouth smoothly, a thin layer over something derisive, biting. “Cher?” he repeated. “We haven’t used that sort of word for each other in a long time, _engel_.”   
  
France went rigid in his seat, and beside him, England did the same. It took Russia and America half a beat longer, until America’s eyes drifted up to his fellows in confusion before snapping on the shape of Prussia’s body in the shadows across the room.  
  
Lightening struck, the sharp brilliance of it shooting across his pale skin and ripped uniform like knives, casting a long, misshapen shadow that lapped at the floors and walls. Prussia grinned, piercing, feral. “Miss me, fuckers?”  
  
Strangely, they seemed too shocked to respond.  
  
Prussia _laughed_.  
  
The line of his shoulders was casual, hunched, as he rolled them and pushed off from the window frame into the room. “Funniest thing happened to me today.” That same, half-mad laughter dripped like gore from his mouth, bright and unhinged. “I… woke up…” He took a few steps forward, and his expression was almost amiable, light, fond, content. “…in… my…” He twirled a hand absently with each syllable, smiling. “…own… _GRAVE_!” The last world was a shout, a snarl, calling to mind a great wolf that had lashed out to snap at flesh.  
  
The sheer force and fury of the syllable struck the gathered nations like a physical wave, and they jerked backwards, standing, chairs screeching across the floor as they recoiled. Their eyes were wide, and they were frozen, the poor, sweet, shaken, _victorious_ testaments to his ruin.  
  
“Did you miss me after you killed me?” Prussia spread his arms out wide as he reiterated the question, and caked mud and other things--- some of it likely the remnants of decay from before he reanimated--- fell from his outstretched limbs.  
  
Utter silence. Complete, unbelieving stillness.  
  
Prussia’s head lolled dramatically to the side until his eyes fixed on France’s blue ones. He brought a hand back to his lips, blood from his torn skin dotting his mouth before he drew it away to blow France a kiss. “How about you, dear?”  
  
“P-Prussia---” France’s voice broke on his name, choked on it.  
  
It wasn’t good enough.  
  
“ _You son of a bitch!_ ” Prussia screamed, throat searing with the pressure of it, lashing out an arm in front his body. “ _All of you!_ You executed me. You ripped me from my people, set me up to die, and convinced my brother it was right!” His hands dug into his hair as he bent forwards slightly, clutched at his head in a moment of madness before, “You left me to claw my way out of my own fucking coffin!”  
  
“God…” It was America’s voice.  
  
Prussia’s head snapped up, and there was a wide, deranged sneer on his face. “Oh, the poor, young, _tragic_ hero…” His stare latched on America’s, held it. The other nation’s expression was one of undiluted horror. “You hated it, didn’t you? But _oh_ , it was the right thing to do.” Mockery, as smooth, sane, and collected as if there had been no moment of anguish, bled into his words. “It was the noble thing, wasn’t it? Convince the little brother there was no choice. He’d be so _sad_ if you didn’t. You were just… helping. Heroes do that, help people.”  
  
“Leave him alone.” Measured and relaxed, normal speaking volume.  
  
A laugh tore from his throat again. “Always so calm, England,” Prussia redirected as his eyes slid from blue to green. “If I didn’t know what was beneath all that posturing, it might even be convincing.” He took another slow step forward. “Because I’ve been down into you. I’ve seen those sides and all the fucked up little pretenses that are supposed to hide them. You’re nothing but a gentleman charlatan, a criminal guised up as something wise. Were you the one to write out the plans?” He dribbled his fingertips over the wound circling his throat. “Were you the one to plot out how I was going to die?”  
  
“Yes,” England answered simply, without hesitation. His gaze didn’t waver from Prussia’s. His bearing was stiff, assertive, but he could see the shocked tremor at the edges. “At the bequest of our bosses, I organized your execution. They chose the method, and I told them how it could be done.”  
  
For some reason that was funny, and Prussia tilted his head back and let the chilling laughter dig its nails into him another time. It hurt, came out rasping and sharp and without constraint. Everyone in the room flinched. Oh, their bosses had told them to do it… Well, his boss had told him to do some things too.  
  
America shifted, and his voice was a little thin with horror-struck distress. “I-I don’t know how you’re alive, but… but, Prussia, we can _help_ you…”  
  
“America,” Russia warned quietly without ever looking away from Prussia as the former nation shook with disturbed mirth.  
  
And Prussia went still, laugh cutting off mid-note. He let his head fall down to study them with abruptly cool, rational eyes. An ironic half-smile curved his mouth. “Help me? You want. To _help_ me.” He angled his body towards America, tone smooth as he formed the words, “I’ll rip out your fucking ribcage, and we’ll see how much good that bleeding heart will do you beating on the fucking ground.”  
  
“Prussia.” The authority behind it sounded like a whip-crack. “You are drastically outnumbered and can’t hope to hold your own against all four of us for long.” England’s hand had gone to the gun at his side, but his face was still a sculpted picture of calm. “I suggest you take compassion where it is given.”  
  
“ _Compassion?_ ” Prussia snarled. “Where was that when you watched me _hang_? Where was that when you stood in that room and watched like it meant _nothing_ , when you manipulated my brother into thinking there was no other option?” He pressed a hand to his heart. “But I’m touched. Now that a dead man’s come to visit and you think you may have royally fucked up, _now_ you can show me your concern.”  
  
“Prussia… please…” France managed. Two words, but the emotion in them made the bearer sound tortured.  
  
“Don’t.” Prussia didn’t look at him, kept his eyes solidly on England. “Don’t. You have nothing to say to me.”  
  
Nothing could have made him look at France when he was using that voice. He sounded too much like his friend, and not enough like the nation he had just fought a war against, not enough like the man who had stood in the face of all they’d been and played spectator to his death.   
  
_Compassion_ … If they’d had any, they’d have shown it when they killed him. The shake in France’s voice was too-late regret. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t friendship. It _couldn’t_ be. Because if it was, then he’d spent the last few moments of his life hating a lie, and that wasn’t something he could afford to consider. Of all the paths these men, these peacetime friends and lovers, could have taken, they’d chosen execution. ( _Except, they didn’t choose it; their bosses did_ ). They’d chosen to permanently destroy one of their own kind, one they’d known for centuries. ( _But_ , something internal murmured, _maybe they were there because they had to be, not because they_ wanted---).  
  
“Help, yes?” Russia’s voice chimed up, thoughtful, tone suddenly fracturing from the intensity of the moment in a way that only he could manage. “You mean that’s not why you came?”  
  
The abrupt interjection sent a cold sensation lacing down his spine, made him consider things he didn’t want to, made his hate split and deviate down a different course. A creature inside him that never existed outside of the battlefield bayed for survival no matter the cost. Prussia could hear his teeth grinding together. He didn’t look away from England, and the rage inside of him didn’t want to admit he wanted them to do anything other than die choking on their own blood.  
  
He didn’t want to admit that some part of him still had some hope of surviving. He was there for revenge, not for… God, why couldn’t he get his head straight? It was too much, and he was---  
  
When America spoke, his voice was broken as he tried to think through the shock. “You… you came to us first. Why not Germany?”  
  
He remembered his brother’s face set in a mask, all emotion completely restricted to the blue of his eyes, despair, fear, desperation…  
  
“Shut up,” Prussia bit out. His hands clenched, and he realized there were 8 half-moon shaped wounds on his palms. “You don’t understand him and you don’t understand me so why don’t you just shut the fuck---”  
  
“I mean,” America rambled on, “if I knew my brother thought I was dead, if he’d… he’d killed me himself… the first thing I’d do is let him know I wasn’t…” he trailed off, voice small, a far cry from that boisterous confidence. “Why didn’t you go to Germany?”  
  
Prussia stared at him very coldly and wondered what America’s throat would look like honeyed with red as Prussia dug his fingers in and _tore_. It cut him as deep as wire, and he couldn’t find a flippant response through the anger.  
  
“Ah!” Russia exclaimed. “He doesn’t want to give his brother false hope. For all that pomp and pretense, he merely wants to save his brother the pain of watching him die a second time.”  
  
Silence again, until a roll of thunder sounded overhead.  
  
Prussia and England stared each other down.  
  
He smirked, the expression utterly cocky and defiant. He’d spat in the face of logic and nature once that night, and was constantly torn between the pull of safety and the desire to tell England to draw his gun and see what happened.  
  
“I didn’t come here for _help_ ,” he tried to make his voice as demanding as possible. “I came so you could tell me what you intend to do now.”  
  
America laughed nervously and turned to England. “Well, that’s obvious isn’t it?”  
  
England didn’t say anything.  
  
“No…” America hissed, eyes suddenly wide again. “You can’t be serious. _He’s alive_. That means something.”  
  
Everything was strung out between them. All the colored blocks were scattered to the ground into a misshapen pile of emotion, terror, and deceit. They were at a point at which they could choose what their new form would be, and they all hovered between it. Allies. Dead man walking.  
  
“England.” France’s voice was small, and if Prussia hadn’t been filled with so much hate, he might have said there was a pleading element to it. Instead of looking at Prussia, his face was locked with something on the table. But he didn’t seem to see or focus on anything but oblivion.  
  
Daring a glance towards France, England darted his head to the side and checked for something. France looked up to meet him. The silent exchange took nothing more than a few seconds.  
  
Sighing, England’s hand dropped from his gun. “Our orders were to execute you. The Dissolution of Prussia was a state matter, and Gilbert Beillschmidt was to be hanged by the neck until dead.” His moss-colored eyes were dark as his brain maneuvered legal terrain, and he looked as if he felt he would regret his words. “You were executed. You died for your crimes as a nation and to ease the transition of your people…”  
  
Prussia couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  
  
“You died,” England said with a sense of finality. “Nobody said you had to stay dead. Therefore, we have fulfilled our obligations to the Allied high command. I see no reason to repeat the experiment.”  
  
Prussia searched England’s face for the lie he felt in those words. “Right. No need to repeat the experiment until they tell you to put me in my grave again and keep me there. Next time it’ll be cremation, won’t it? Or the coffin will be made out of steel.”  
  
“There won’t be a next time,” America stated.  
  
Something about that simple pledge with false, untested conviction made Prussia’s stomach turn. “Don’t even try to make promises like that, you little shit. _Ever_.”  
  
“Run.” Russia suggested. “Our governments will need convincing, and I suggest you make yourself disappear for a little while.”  
  
Russia was a relatively safe zone, Prussia realized. He had been the only one who voted in Prussia’s favor, and although he was still trying to wrap his mind around what the Soviets had to gain, he knew that Russia had a reason for keeping him alive. He didn’t know what the ulterior motive was yet, but Russia needed him for something. A while ago, he would have spat in the face of such manipulation… but the more he thought about the thin, lonely length of piano wire in a nondescript prison cell, the better a reason to breathe sounded.  
  
There was another pause in the conversation as Prussia mulled over the proposition.  
  
That was also the moment he realized he would have done almost anything. He feared death. Of all the things for him to fear, it turned out his crippling phobia was almost comically human.  
  
He had another part to him, something angry and bitter that didn’t want to accept help from the same people that murdered him, that wanted nothing more than to get revenge and watch them beg for forgiveness with bamboo shoved up their nails and ropes around their necks.  
  
The recurring memory resurfaced through it all, for some reason, the one that stayed with him as much as the death itself.  
  
Germany, standing there and watching him choke.  
  
He took a deep, calming breath and tried to restrain the energetic mania. “Fine, if it means I don’t swing, I’ll leave.”  
  
France did not look relieved, and Prussia didn’t want to believe that was relief.  
  
“But I need a ride somewhere first.”


	2. Chapter 2

It stopped raining by the time he got to Germany’s house.  
  
They’d lived there for a very long time. He awkwardly strode past the great iron gate that had been established after the Nazi rise to power, and the Allied soldier that drove him there waved him through the two cronies in rain jackets guarding it. When it shut behind him, there was a claustrophobic bite attached to the sound. His instincts –-- animal, heightened, paranoid –-- told him that it was a trap. The stone walkway was strong and familiar, though, and that stability was comforting. Prussia remembered bouncing up to that home on good days, sunny days, coming to harass his brother. Reminding him to get out and have some goddamn fun once in a while was one of Prussia’s favorite hobbies.  
  
One light could be seen from the living room, a gentle glow that cut through the darkness and the steady percussion of water droplets falling after the storm.  
  
Prussia stepped off the walkway and onto the sopping grass. It sloshed and he felt himself sinking. The sensation caused his throat to go dry, but he ignored it and reminded himself that mud was part of every day life. There was nothing scary about it; it was just dirt.  
  
He came up to the window and looked inside.  
  
Germany was hunched over his coffee table, drinking something warm out of a white, chipped mug in one hand as he studied the object in front of him. His brother wasn’t in a military uniform or a suit, just a button-up shirt and slacks. Prussia was surprised to see that he wasn’t working --- he was just going through an old photo album.  
  
Under any other circumstances, that probably wouldn’t have made Prussia’s heart crack and split like a chunk of granite.  
  
The kind aura to the room was offset by the look of utter exhaustion on Germany’s face. His eyes were nervous and sagging, like he’d gone weeks without proper sleep. His appearance still attempted immaculate, but a lack of sleep had driven him to make sloppy mistakes.  
  
From where he stood, Prussia could see what Germany was looking at.  
  
Photos of their military service that he’d somehow managed to smuggle away before Allied troops sacked his home for military for Nazi paraphernalia. Prussia could see his own face in some of the photos. They were all mostly taken on leave and were therefore happy memories.  
  
Germany locked on one picture, took it out and stared at it. In this one, they were not the subjects; they were barely even in focus. It had been taken at a drunken celebration for one of their troops who’d just received word that he and his wife had had a baby. There were a lot of people in the picture, but Prussia remembered that he and Germany were in the corner, laughing like madmen and barely able to walk straight, they’d been forced to lean on each other for support. It was completely candid, completely them.  
  
Happy thoughts could sting almost as much as the tragic ones, especially when they involved the same person and blended into a miasma of regret. Prussia knew the feeling well.  
  
His throat tightened a little, a lump that he didn’t want to acknowledge.  
  
He never thought he’d be able to see Germany again. He was forced to come to terms with the idea that he’d never be able to mess up his brother’s hair…to tell him over and over again that he couldn’t shoulder the blame for everything himself.  
  
The night was cold, and Germany looked like he was in pain.  
  
Then Prussia saw Italy emerge from the hallway.  
  
At the threshold of the living room, Italy rubbed a hand over his eyes and shuffled over to where Germany sat on the couch. Although their dogs had been lost when Berlin fell, the way Italy wordlessly sat next to Germany, wrapped his arms around him and looked at what Germany was looking at reminded Prussia of the way a dog would comfort someone.  
  
What surprised him was the way Germany reached an arm around and drew him closer. It was a small movement of the hand, but Prussia saw it. That little shift of a hand was the equivalent of desperate clinging in any other person.  
  
After a long time, Italy started talking about something nonsensical, and Germany would occasionally force a smile that Prussia could tell wasn’t really forced.  
  
It wasn’t like his brother was dancing on his grave or anything. What he saw wasn’t recovery, just a moment of happiness.  
  
Prussia swallowed the lump and walked to the front door.  
  
He straightened his uniform pointlessly. Standing in the rain had not helped his appearance, and the outfit still looked at monstrous as it had earlier. He looked like something straight out of Hell. Maybe he did just come from Hell; he had no clue.  
  
He lifted a hand to knock, clenched it, and tried to fight back the wave of nervousness that washed over him. Suddenly, he was very afraid that his only family member, the one person he loved more than anybody else in the world…would be more sad than happy to see him. If he knocked on that door, he became a complication. The thought of being rejected almost hurt too much.  
  
Another bothersome thought was the specifics of his resurrection. The idea that it wasn’t permanent, that he’d waste away while his brother watched…  
  
Prussia snapped his jaw shut, held his head high, and knocked on the door before he could talk himself out of it.  
  
Germany didn’t respond immediately, and Prussia fought the urge to run. He never would have thought he’d be so scared of being turned away by someone he cared about.  
  
Most fearful of all was the steady, manipulative, paranoid little voice in the back of his head that told him Germany had been convinced that killing him was the right thing to do –-- that Germany might feel the need to fulfill his obligations again.  
  
The door swung open, basking Prussia in the soft light of the house they used to share.  
  
Germany stood in the portal and stared. With in a moment, Prussia saw the shakes form, and Germany’s mouth opened slightly in a gasp…or maybe it was a silent scream, Prussia wasn’t really sure. His eyes went wide, and one hand dropped from the doorknob only to fall flat and useless to his thigh. Paralyzed, Germany stood facing Prussia.  
  
“Hey,” Prussia said, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible. “It’s kind of cold out here, can I come in?”  
  
Germany managed to find words.  
  
“No…”  
  
Prussia’s heart jumped, his skin felt far away and thin at that one little word. “What do you mean ‘no’?”  
  
Germany shook his head. “You’re…not real.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“You’re dead.”  
  
“I was.”  
  
Germany’s breathing was becoming erratic. “No, I…we kept your body for a week. You didn’t resurrect. You’re dead.”  
  
“I’m not anymore,” Prussia offered with a shrug of shoulders that seemed unnaturally casual for the circumstances. “I don’t really understand what happened. Look, I’ve had a really busy night, what with digging out of my own grave and all. I’d…really like a warm place to sleep.”  
  
That’s what really snapped Germany out of his stupor was the lingering upon Prussia’s clothes. They were coated in mud and grave dust. The brilliant dark blue was almost gone entirely, caked in dirt and bits of blood.  
  
Slowly, Germany reached out with a shaking hand. Prussia stayed still, watched as Germany undid the buttons on his jacket and slid his hand under the coat, bringing his palm just over Prussia’s heart. For at least a minute, they didn’t say anything. Germany felt Prussia’s heartbeat, and Prussia felt Germany’s life in turn. It was a calm reassurance.  
  
“Do you believe me now, bruder?”  
  
Germany dropped to his knees, hand falling from Prussia’s shirt, only to grasp at his coat as he fell.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Germany wheezed between sharp breaths. “I’m…”  
  
“Germany, who’s at the door?” Italy sang as he rounded the corner, hanging close to the wall as he twirled and caught sight of the scene in front of him.  
  
Prussia felt a moment of terror. Immediately, he saw Italy scared and wailing at the top of his lungs. That combined with Germany’s mental processing meant exponential havoc. He cringed, and then cautiously raised a hand to wave, finding a weak smile from his pool of resolve. “Hey, Italy.”  
  
Italy stayed quiet for a long moment, observing the scene with a dumb little blank look while Prussia had his hand up like an idiot and Germany was hyperventilating on the floor in front of them.  
  
Slowly, Italy walked towards them, occasionally tilting his head at Prussia, almost like he was looking for something. They locked eyes, and Italy knew.  
  
“Prussia!” he said musically and came running up, wrapping his arms around Prussia’s neck and hugging him. “I’m so glad you’re back. We really missed you.”  
  
Prussia smiled shakily; that wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting.  
  
Before either brother could stop him, Italy snuck his hand under Germany’s palm and pried his hand off of Prussia’s coat. “Come on,” he said as he wrapped one arm around Prussia’s elbow and started to lead him inside, “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Prussia felt the mud cake and fall off of his boots, leaving thick, muddy footprints as Italy led him through the house.  
  
Germany remained frozen, hunched over and on his knees in front of the open door.  
  
~~~   
  
When Italy gathered up his ruined uniform and Prussia sank into the warm bath that had been drawn for him, he finally realized how tired he was. He’d done too much moving that night, and now that he was still again his muscles were finally beginning to protest. The cuts on his hands stung from the soap and water, but as the layers of filth came off he began to feel less demonic. He had to be careful not to close his eyes for too long, because that seemed to remind his body that he was tired. The anxious jolt that followed always reminded him that he was afraid of that darkness.  
  
Italy left a stack of clothes outside the door, and he was a little glad that they were _his_ clothes, that Germany hadn’t thrown them all out yet. The black tank hung a little loose on him when he put it on, and the pants were kept in place only with an extra notch in the belt.  
  
For the first time, he properly studied his face in the mirror.  
  
He was paler and thinner than he’d ever remembered being, but his eyes were that same, strange dark red. The dirt had been washed out of his hair. Experimentally, he ran a hand through it to find that it was shorter than it had been when he died- cropped well above his ears instead of barely brushing the tips. It was…unnerving in a way, the thought that such a little thing had been done to him without his permission while he was out. It had only been three weeks, but he still wondered how much had changed without him.  
  
Prussia roughed his hand through his hair to mess it up again and went downstairs. Italy had said something about soup. The warm shower helped, but he still felt like his core was empty and frosted over.  
  
When he came downstairs, the smell of something scrumptious had already filled the house, and Prussia felt his stomach roll. He’d vomited what he assumed was his last meal out on the street somewhere, so he was ready to eat.  
  
But then he caught sight of Germany sitting on the couch, staring numbly at the photo album again. Prussia sighed and sat down next to him. They were quiet for a little while, the sound of Italy humming in the kitchen, the ticking clock on the wall, were the only things that marked the time.  
  
“So,” Prussia was the first one to try breaking the wall between them, “what are you thinking?”  
  
“I’m thinking that this isn’t real. I keep thinking that I’m going to wake up and you’re going to still be dead.” Germany quieted and massaged his forehead. “I’ve had dreams like that every night.”  
  
“Does it make me full of myself to be glad you were thinking of me?” Prussia said with a false laugh.  
  
Realizing that only Prussia would make a joke like that, Germany suddenly had that same tiny smile that Italy had given him earlier – it should have been fake but wasn’t. “Yes, yes it is narcissistic of you, but I would have been concerned if you weren’t.”  
  
There was another awkward silence after that short exchange.  
  
He caught sight of himself in the dark reflection of the window. At least he was on the inside looking out this time.  
  
“Who cut my hair?”  
  
His brother reached for his coffee, found that it was empty, and put it back. “Hungary.”  
  
The last time he’d seen Hungary, she’d had blood on her face and had to suffer through the indignity of being too weak to slit his throat--- God knew she wanted to. She’d hated him for that weakness, he thinks, more than she’d hated the Reich for what had been done to her people. But he could see her cutting his hair. Once, when they’d been children, he’d tried to cut it himself.  
  
Prussia smiled. He couldn’t remember what her exact words were, but the phrase ‘blind and fingerless beggar’ stood out in his mind. “She always said I looked better when I kept it short.” There was a lump in his throat. “How did she take it?”  
  
“She was…sadder than she thought she would be,” Germany seemed slightly more comfortable talking about something he could understand, a pain that had nothing to do with his own. “I think the method disturbed her as much as anything; she said it was no death for a warrior.”  
  
There was more uncomfortable silence.  
  
Germany opened his mouth, something desperate on the tip of his tongue.  
  
“Don’t apologize again, Germany,” Prussia said preemptively. “Please, just…don’t do that.”  
  
“I killed you,” Germany said it flatly, with an undercurrent of pure horror. He had one hand clenched in another, the knuckles white as he squeezed.  
  
“They made you kill me.”  
  
Germany tripped over the words. “I could have refused. I should have gone to prison rather than---“  
  
“No,” Prussia said firmly. “Trust me. I’m glad it was you rather than one of them.”  
  
“Don’t say that,” Germany said firmly. “You don’t mean that.”  
  
“I do,” Prussia replied with equal firmness. “I’m glad you were there.” He left the ‘I honestly don’t think I could have done what I did without you’ unsaid.  
  
Because the truth was that if he’d had to face that room without Germany at his side, he wouldn’t have died with the same poise. He _knew_ that. He would have fought tooth and nail and gone down like an animal before he let one of the Allies fill the space that only Germany had any right to. If they’d seen fit to euthanize a mad dog, he’d have damn well given them some madness to remember him by. He’d have made them see the full truth of it as they compliantly killed one of their own kind.  
  
That image made nausea coil in his chest.  
  
“I’m glad you were there,” he repeated, quieter but with the same strength.  
  
Germany took a shuddering breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and Prussia knew he’d realized where his thoughts were. “Prussia…”  
  
Prussia reached out for his brother’s hand before he could finish, and Germany took it, applying that same white-knuckled grip to the connection like it was all they had. In a way, it was.  
  
Italy came in with the soup.  
  
~~~   
  
Germany led Prussia up to his room, insisting that he needed a good night’s sleep before leaving for South America in the morning. His bedroom was untouched, and suddenly he didn’t know what unnerved him more: the changes or the things that hadn’t changed.  
  
His throat tightened again when he saw the bed, thought about how much it reminded him of lying in a coffin lined with cloth, how similar death and going to sleep really were.  
  
“You don’t remember anything after you close your eyes,” he said, barely a whisper as he stood and stared at the bed.  
  
Germany swallowed, thought about the fact that they were both in a room and he’d directed them there, that he was the one encouraging Prussia to bed. Prussia could see from the look on his face that he was already drawing an unpleasant parallel. “You don’t have to sleep if you don’t want to,” he said quickly.  
  
Prussia considered his fear and compared it with how tired he was. Then swallowed his fear and reminded himself that he was not going to be buried again, he was just going to bed, in his home, the home that he’d fought his way through six feet of dirt to see again. “No. I’ll sleep…but could you do me a favor?”  
  
“Yes?” _Anything_.  
  
“Could you leave the light on?” Prussia asked, and suddenly he felt very much like a child. “And could you be here when I wake up tomorrow?” Germany had been the last thing he saw when he closed his eyes, now, he desperately wanted that to be the first thing he saw when he opened them and he wasn’t too prideful to ask.  
  
Germany nodded. “I can do that.”  
  
With grim determination, Prussia climbed into his bed. He didn’t even know how to describe the sensation, other than it was cold and stale. He reminded himself that it wasn’t just his time underground that had rendered it that way, but also the months he’d spent in prison, awaiting whatever they decided to do with him. Awkwardly, as if he couldn’t quite remember how, he folded into the bed between the sheets and tried to ignore how alien being in his own bed felt.  
  
Germany reached over and pulled the covers up over his shoulder.  
  
It was that small, protective motion that told Prussia he would be protected as well. Even though he would have to leave for Venezuela in the morning, it told him that Germany would not bear to kill him again or watch him die. He didn’t just feel alive, he felt safe.  
  
“Good night, _bruder_.”  
  
With the promise that he would wake up again, Prussia slept.  
  
~~~  
  
The tarmac had seen better, not-pockmarked-to-hell days, but that didn’t stop it from being full-up with planes. People were coming and leaving in a constant ebb of those who had a horde of important things to do, little time to do them, and lots of ground to cover. Prussia could empathize, or at least, he could empathize with the last two points. He only had one glaringly important thing to do, if he really thought about it: get out, fast.  
  
Open air and open sky stretched around him, Germany, and Italy as they approached the plane that would take Prussia to assumed safety. At first, the openness made Prussia feel relieved and eased the spontaneous claustrophobia he’d developed since digging out of the confines of his coffin. Then it made him feel like a target. There was no way of knowing when the information he’d returned from the grave would reach the human governments, and there was even less of a chance of knowing how they would react. The base of his skull itched with the trigger hairs of paranoia, but Prussia didn’t angle his head in either direction, forcing himself to be content with the peripheral. For today, he was just a guy about to get on a plane.  
  
Said plane was white and going gray in a few places near the wings. It wasn’t very large, but it was only the first of five that he’d have to take.  
  
“---and you remember your layover times, don’t you?” Germany was rambling with an obsessive amount of nervousness. “Don’t forget to eat when you get to the next airport, you won’t have another opportunity for hours, and I know you, you’ll just get frustrated with what they serve on the plane, and it’s not fair to the attendants---”  
  
“Germany.” Prussia clamped a hand on his shoulder without looking away from the plane. That machine was the first step in leaving his land, his people, his _brother_. But he had to do this; he had to _know_ … He shook himself slightly and angled his head to flash Germany a flippant grin. It felt brittle. “You’ve been repeating the same damn thing over and over since we left the house. Don’t you trust me to behave myself?”  
  
“No,” he answered easily, but there was a certain fondness to the scowl. Then something desperate and thick with _I don’t want you to go, wait, more time_ flashed into the expression, and Prussia jerked his gaze from his brother’s face; if he looked at that too long, he’d hesitate, and they couldn’t afford it. Their histories were tangled with decisions Prussia had made based on emotion and last minute impulses. This couldn’t be one of them.  
  
“No promises, but I’ll try to be good. Points for effort, yeah?” The words were the right ones to sound confident, unbothered, but Prussia had forgotten to inject them with the right tone.  
  
They were stalling. They both _knew_ they were stalling.  
  
Italy, bless him, clued in on it. He slipped around from where he’d been standing at Germany’s other side, and threw his arms around Prussia’s neck. He was warm, and solid, and soothing, and most of all, an assurance that there were nations out there who wanted him to live. “I’m going to miss you, Prussia,” he said, hugging tight. “We love you very much. I hope Venezuela is warm, beautiful, and has good food! But not as good as my food, because I want you to come back.”  
  
Prussia laughed and wrapped an arm around his waist once he’d set his suitcase down. “Yeah, okay. I’ll miss you too.”  
  
And suddenly it was real.  
  
Italy kissed his cheek, pulled away, and gave him a smile full of kind well-wishing. “Have a good trip!” He squeezed his arm lightly. “Bye for now.” With that, he started to walk away--- slow enough that Germany would be able to catch up with no trouble.  
  
“Yeah…” Prussia said quietly. “Bye.”  
  
He and Germany stared at the plane for several long moments in silence.   
  
When Germany finally spoke, it had the quality of someone trying to be comforting when they themselves were not comforted. “This is only temporary. A test. No matter what the results are, we’ll…”  
  
“It’s just a year. We’ll know in a year.” Prussia was quick to affirm. “We’ve been separated longer than that before.” Just not in the past century.  
  
Germany swallowed audibly, seemed to collect himself. “Prussia, I---”  
  
“Don’t you dare get sappy on me, I swear to God.”  
  
“No, just…” Germany turned to look at him, and Prussia felt something inside him sink at his expression. It was the summation of the emotions he _hadn’t_ shown at the execution, everything he’d concealed from the Allies but wouldn’t from Prussia, save for one thing: there was hope this time, trust that this truly was temporary. “I love you, brother.” It came out kinda quiet, the volume sounding a little wrong coming from a man of his build.  
  
“What did I _just_ say?” Prussia demanded. The part of him that called to mind a monstrous image of what he’d looked like as he dug out of his grave howled disbelief at Germany’s words, and Prussia promptly kicked it in the teeth. Because, seriously, fuck that line of thinking. His brother loved him. End of story.  
  
Germany managed a smile.  
  
“Hey, look…” Prussia lifted his hands to clamp on Germany’s shoulders as he met his eyes and let some of his wild, reckless strength bleed through. “As long as there is a way to get back to you, no matter what crazy-ass situation I get myself into, I will _always_ find it. Got that?”  
  
There was a shine to Germany’s eyes that Prussia very carefully did not notice. “Yes.”  
  
Prussia studied his face briefly, making sure the words sunk in, before pulling away and picking up his suitcase. “Right then…”  
  
“Prussia?” Germany halted him before he’d taken more than a half-step. “I brought something I…” From the inside of his jacket, Germany produced a photograph. It was the one of the celebration for the soldier’s baby, the one with the two of them laughing, bright and alive in the corner. “Take it with you.”  
  
Prussia froze and then, mutely, lifted a hand to take it from his brother.  
  
He was going to say something, as soon as he figured out what, but when he looked up, Germany had taken several steps backwards and then turned and began walking in the direction Italy had gone. It was probably better that way. They were both spectacularly bad at saying goodbye. Especially so soon after a different one; the sentiments shared then wouldn’t have changed, and there are certain things a person can only bear to say once.  
  
When the plane took him out of the boundaries of the nation of Germany, Prussia felt it immediately. Over the next hour, he deciphered something from the jumbled nameless sensations scrambling for purchase in his head. Spending a year in Venezuela would discern whether or not he was still connected to his people, whether he still had the lifeblood of a nation, but regardless of the result, there was still going to be a strong force drawing him back: his family, and he’d like to see a paltry thing like distance even _try_ to keep him from his brother when he’d already proven a fucking grave couldn’t.  
  
A crooked grin on the spectrum opposite from the one he’d given standing on a bench in front of a bit of piano wire flashed across his face.  
  
The poor bastard sitting beside him edged away a bit.


End file.
